


A Bottle Marked ‘Poison’

by natashastarkrogers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Minor Carol Danvers/James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Panic Attacks, Post-Avengers: Infinity War, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rhodey Is a Good Bro, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Centric, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-22 05:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natashastarkrogers/pseuds/natashastarkrogers
Summary: The headstones are clean and well preserved and surrounded by fresh, colorful flowers when he reaches them. Not lilies, never lilies. But roses and sunflowers and violets. Someone has been taking care of them for years.(Not him. He can't even take care of himself.)There's names and dates and pictures. There's quotes. Beloved mother.He has a split lip, his eye is a nasty shade of purple and he's still nursing three bruised ribs. Somehow this hurts more.OROn the anniversary of their deaths, Tony visits his parents’ graves. He has an unexpected encounter. Things go downhill from there.4/08/18 THIS WORK IS CURRENTLY UNDER REVISION





	1. Loss

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that I had in mind for a while and I'm really glad it's finally seeing the light! 
> 
> It takes place a little after infinity war, so while not really getting into it, I'll be speculating a bit about what happens there, including the fact that Tony once again has the arc reactor and that Bucky acquired a new metal arm in Wakanda.
> 
> This fic is rated E cause it will contain explicit sexual content and mature themes, including violence and detailed descriptions of panic attacks. Please keep that in mind and proceed with caution if those things make you uncomfortable. 
> 
> I would like to thank [superbatfleck](http://superbatfleck.tumblr.com/) for being the most amazing beta and the most amazing friend. I love you and I really don't deserve you. And I would also like to thank [timmyjdrake](http://timmyjdrake.tumblr.com/) and [imissyourbattlecries](http://imissyourbattlecries.tumblr.com/) for always being so kind and supportive. You guys are the best!
> 
> Comments are more than welcome and they will make my day! Come and talk me on tumblr, I make gifs @ [thepunisher!](http://thepunisher.tumblr.com)

At the temple there is a poem called "Loss" carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read loss, only feel it.

 

_Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha_

 

He's close to having a major breakdown, so it's just typical that a squirrel is giving him the stinky eye. A man like him can't really fall apart without a judging audience. Everyone's a critic. Go figure.

 

It's a sunny day, the kind where birds are annoyingly chirpy and the wind can't seem to stop blowing against trees leaves. The kind you fool yourself into thinking it's going to be warm enough to taste like spring and yet the cold actually seeps into your bones and consumes you from the inside. The kind where apparently even squirrels are not above mocking you when you've been sitting pathetically in your car for over half an hour, too afraid to face your demons.

 

Squirrels can smell cowardice, who knew.

 

Tony doesn't know if it's fitting or not. The sun, the peace. Even the peanut gallery. He's always lived under the spotlight, after all. But he supposes that rain or hail or fog would have probably been better companions to his mood.

 

It takes him another ten good minutes, mostly spent with his hands holding the steering wheel way too tight, before he finds some sort of resolution and he gets out of the car.

 

He feels a couple of stems dent under his vice-like grip and curses when he notices that he ruined the flowers already.

 

He's terrible at this, no wonder he never did it before. He's not even inside yet and he already fucked up.

 

(Not unusual, he fucks everything up.)

 

The lilies are delicate and beautiful, and their smell feels like a punch to the stomach.

 

Maria loved lilies and breathing them in is like jumping on a time machine that takes him back forty years in one second.

Their mansion in New York, the one that sat uninhibited for over two decades, would always smell like lilies, like her. Jarvis would put fresh ones around almost daily.

 

It doesn't now. Not anymore. It doesn't smell like home either.

 

If the guard at the gate recognises him, he doesn't show it. Whatever the reason, Tony is glad for small mercies. He battled intergalactic aliens hellbent on ruling the universe and shook the hands of people who stomped on his broken heart this past year, yet he doesn't think he could master faking a smile for a stranger right now.

 

(Untrue. He's been faking his whole life.)

 

The cemetery itself is mostly deserted, which is a relief. The atmosphere is creepy, with a touch of horror movie beginning, probably, but at least there's no one to witness his sorry ass.

Maybe it's the early hour. Maybe other people have better things to do so close to Christmas than chase ghosts at dawn.

 

(He wouldn't know, he's always been haunted.)

 

There's an overabundance of marble, of angels, of those stupid birds still chirping way too happily for his own taste, but his mind is too loud and racing to focus on anything around him.

 

You'd think a grown man wouldn't have to struggle at the thought of visiting his parents’ graves.

 

(You'd think the fact that he's considered an adult wouldn't be hilarious.)

 

He doesn't know how people do not get overwhelmed walking among rows and rows of headstones, of grass, of stories ended sometimes too soon, sometimes too brutally.

 

He hates every second of it.

 

Perhaps it's a matter of practice. He wouldn't know. The last time he visited the cemetery was the day he put his parents and his youth six feet under. That was twenty-six years ago.

 

He takes at least 4 wrong turns, and he tells himself it's cause this place is a fucking labyrinth, but he knows he's just trying to stall. Again.

 

(He's always been a coward.)

 

The headstones are clean and well preserved and surrounded by fresh, colorful flowers when he reaches them. Not lilies, never lilies. But roses and sunflowers and violets. Someone has been taking care of them for years.

 

(Not him. He can't even take care of himself.)

 

There's names and dates and pictures. There's quotes. _Beloved mother_.

 

He has a split lip, his eye is a nasty shade of purple and he's still nursing three bruised ribs. Somehow this hurts more.

 

He sighs.

 

The lilies’ stems are ruined, but he still sets them carefully inside one large vase. He doesn't think Maria would have minded, their whiteness stark against the other flowers.

 

There are benches nearby. Iron things with pointed and curly embellishments and peeled off paint and marble flat things that look uncomfortable as hell, but he just bends his knees and sits on the floor, the ground under him cold.

 

He sits there for a long time, his elbows resting on his knees, grasping his hands, breathing in the scents of winter and grass and mourning.

 

He knows a lot of people come to this place to talk to their loved ones, but Tony finds himself speechless.

 

He doesn't think Maria would have minded that either.

 

And what to say anyway? _Hi, mom. Not dead yet and not for lack of trying. You proud?_

 

It all feels so anticlimactic, he's a bit disappointed.

 

For all the courage it took to bring him here, now he's unsure of what to do.

 

He looks at the grass, green and growing over his father's grave and all he can remember are his ever disappointed eyes. All he's ever felt and all he thought he would ever feel for him is resentment.

 

He looks over his mother's grave and he's struck by the sudden realization that he can no longer remember the sound of her laughter.

 

Tony doesn't know how long he stays there like that. His ass is a bit numb and sore and the sun is starting to bathe everything in its pale light when he feels it.

 

Goosebumps raise across his flesh, the hair at the nape of his neck going straight. It seems even the chirping has died down.

 

Prey have a preternatural awareness; they always know when a predator is near.

 

He doesn't have enhanced senses, but he knows he's being watched.

 

It's a feeling he experienced a few times since everything went to hell and then somehow it didn't. Since they defeated Thanos.

 

His stalker is a quiet shadow. He always is. So much that Tony thinks not for the first time that perhaps it's all just inside his head. The fruit of his twisted imagination, the product of his wary paranoia, the delusion of his alcohol ruined brain.

 

(In his nightmares there are always shadows.)

 

But he knows the feeling of those eyes on him and for as much he wishes he were, he's not deluded.

 

(Would he know if he truly were?)

 

He _is_ angry though.

 

It took effort and courage and willpower to come to this place, to march across this sea of emptiness and face his monsters. How is he to battle another one when he's already so unprepared?

 

His blunt nails are biting the flesh of his palms and as usual, pain is his anchor.

 

 _He_ 'll go away in a while. He always does.

 

He just looks and looks and looks, his eyes like coals burning Tony's skin each time it happens, but he always leaves.

 

Tony is thankful for that cause he doesn't know what he would do otherwise. What he would say.

 

He knows what he should say and he knows what he can't say. But he doesn't know what he would actually _do,_ given the chance.

 

So he stays where he is, pretending he has things to say to his parents, waiting for him to just go, so he can go back to clawing at the scabs of his heart.

 

He doesn't.

 

Tony waits and waits and waits but his shadow doesn't vanish.

 

There's rustling eventually, and then like gravel crunching under boots. It's not loud, but it's hard to miss in the silence around them. He knows it's deliberate.

 

A cold blooded assassin doesn't make any noise unless he wants you to hear him.

 

Tony’s heart speeds up when sees him approaching from the corner of his eye, a blur of dark clothes and purposeful strides.

 

He briefly thinks of the suit in the car and the gauntlet watch he has on his right wrist, its weight a mute comfort. He feels stupid for even contemplating it, cause it's not like the Soldier is here to kill him. He's hanging with the heroes now. Living with them and all.

 

(He doesn't. But then again he's never been a hero.)

 

The urge to laugh a bitter laugh is strong, but Tony manages to contain it. He bets he already looks mad enough, sitting on the floor of a cemetery at the break of dawn.

 

He is tired. His bones feel hollow and his chest numb. Maybe that's what finally drove him here.

 

Weariness.

 

This conversation has been a long time coming and perhaps they both dragged it out for longer than they should have.

 

There's no point to rage, resignation taking its place.

 

He doesn't turn even when the Soldier stops only a few steps away from him. From the grave of the people he murdered.

 

Tony's brain gingerly supplies the footage of that fateful night, his mother's anxious, broken voice calling for Howard on a loop in his ears.

 

He wonders if the Soldier hears that too sometimes. If it keeps him awake at night. He wonders how many such screams he must have heard in his lifetime as the Grim Reaper.

 

None of them says anything for what feels like hours.

 

Tony can see the Soldier's -Barnes, his name is Barnes- shoulders tighten every once in awhile. His breath hitches as if he's about to speak, but no words ever come out.

 

Ignoring him in the hope that he'll disappear like a figment of his imagination doesn't seem to be working, and so Tony dares to look at him.

 

It feels like he never really did that. He looked perhaps, but he never really saw.

He certainly didn't the time they almost killed each other. All those memories are tinted in red, and he doesn't remember much of that trip to Siberia beside the agony tearing at his chest, the cold taking residence inside his bones and the mute sound of Steve's boots when he left him behind.

 

He didn't really pay too much attention to him when they were all fighting for their lives against Thanos either, too busy trying not to die. They crossed paths a handful of times after that, but it’s not like he was really _looking_.

 

He's tall, as tall as Steve, but he's hiding his hands inside the pockets of a black hoodie, shoulders hunched down. Tony can't really say if it's to make an effort to appear smaller, less intimidating or to conserve body heat since it's fucking freezing and the man is not even wearing a jacket.

 

It's December for God's sake.

 

His hair is longer than he's ever seen it, kept in a messy bun on top of his head, strands falling in front of his eyes, dark stubble dusting his face and dark circles under his eyes that look like bruises.

 

Tony has pictures of him from _before_. Pictures of the Howling Commandos, Howard's mementos. Moments of laughter stolen among the cruelty of war. There's one in particular that used to be his favorite back when he was young and stupid. Rogers is laughing at something that maybe Barnes or maybe the person behind the camera must have said. Barnes is smiling, a small genuine smile that reaches his eyes and lights up his whole face.

 

Tony always thought they both looked so damn handsome then. Unreachable.

 

There's not much of that man left in the man in front of him now. One sits on top on the other like double exposure, two images overlapping, no neat edges.

 

He doesn't think Barnes smiled in a very long time.

 

He looks tired. Like perhaps he hasn't slept in a century. Maybe he hasn't.

 

Tony can almost relate.

 

Barnes meets his stare nearly unblinking. Tony is surprised when he's not the first one to look away.

 

After that, Barnes takes two more steps and sits right there, a few feet away from him, in one graceful moment.

 

Tony stills, unsure. Barnes has never attempted to interact with him before. They always skirted around each other the few times they've been in the same room. They never even acknowledged the other's presence. And for how often he's felt him lingering just around the corner of his mind, the idea of actually talking to the man has always felt alien, distant. As if it belonged to a different man. One who would know what to do.

 

He never prepared for it, something for which he feels very stupid now, considering how inevitable this moment has always been.

 

He becomes suddenly very aware of his hands, of his breaths. Of how uncomfortable is the ground under him.

 

It's a long time before any one of them speaks.

 

“I lied,” Barnes says eventually, his voice both raspy and soft, as if he hasn't used it in a while.

 

Tony closes his eyes.

 

“I lied,” Barnes repeats. “Before. When you asked-” he takes a deep breath, releases it slowly as if to steady himself. As if this is hard for him too. “You asked me if I remember them. I said I remember all of them. I don't. I lied.”

 

Tony turns his head to face him.

 

He's as unmoving as the statues around them, his profile a beautiful thing of soft lines and long lashes.

He's looking in front of him, but Tony is almost certain he's not really seeing the headstones, not really seeing anything.

He has a faraway look in his eyes like he's not really here at all. Tony wonders where he is. He narrows his eyes, pissed at the wayward thought. He doesn't care.

 

They're both silent.

 

Some time later Barnes turns his head towards him, and it's like he focuses again on where he is, what he's doing, who he's talking to.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says.

 

Tony stays quiet. He puts one hand on the ground, picks up some gravel, a few small rocks. He rolls them in his palm. He sighs. “Okay,” he says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

 

He has the most delirious thought that breathing is the easier thing in the world until you're aware you're doing it. Then somehow it becomes impossible, the muscles not responding properly, as if they've forgotten how to do it on their own.

 

Words of forgiveness are stuck on his tongue and he's not brave enough to say them.

 

(He's not brave at all.)

 

Intellectually he knows, _he knows_ it's not Barnes’ fault.

 

Nothing that ever happened to him is his fault. Nothing he ever did was his fault. He's as much a victim of Hydra as all the people he killed.

 

He doesn't even need to ask or guess what they did to him, what he was forced to endure, how he was transformed into a mindless weapon. He's seen the videos. He's spent one too many nights throwing up hugging the toilet after watching them. He knows.

 

He knew even before that, really. He knew once the blood in his veins had stopped boiling, cooled by the cold of Siberia. Once the rage lifted its veil from his eyes.

 

Anger is a terrible fuel, really. It burns too fast and it leaves you barren and it doesn't really take you anywhere.

 

And yet. And yet, he is still the executioner. His is still the punch that hit his father's face until his bones caved in. His is still the hand that took the air away from his mother's lungs.

 

He's the truth that washed away a lifetime of rancor based on lies.

If he forgives Barnes, he has to forgive Howard. And if he forgives Howard, he has to learn how to forgive himself and he doesn't really know how to do that.

 

He doesn't think he can.

 

(How could he ever forgive himself?)

 

But Barnes seems content enough, like he doesn't really expect Tony to say anything at all. Like he only wanted to get those words off his chest, as if they sat there for too long.

 

“I didn't know you were going to be here,” Barnes says, when it's clear that Tony is not going to fill the silence, and then he takes one hand off his pocket and goes as if to run it through his hair only to stop halfway there. It's his left hand. New and shiny and made of vibranium. Barnes stares at it for a second before putting it back into his pocket.

 

He clears his throat.

 

“I didn't mean to intrude. I know this is a private moment. Especially _today_. God, I-” he looks at Tony. “I am. Sorry. I'm sorry. For this too,” he says, though he makes no move to leave.

 

He takes both hands off his pockets then, and he shoves his fingers through his hair, almost yanking it out.

 

The act is so _human_ , it takes Tony by surprise. His words, his gestures, are the first things that make him look like a real person. Tony doesn’t know why, but it makes him mad.

It’s so much easier to hate him when he thinks of him as something else.

 

“I like it here. It's quiet,” Barnes says some time later, and Tony realizes that the more he talks the more he can hear Brooklyn in his accent.

 

A few indelicate comments about that statement cross Tony's mind in rapid succession. Sarcasm has always been his first language.

 

“I haven't been here since their funeral,” he blurts instead and he's so bewildered he hastily shuts his mouth as if afraid some other shameful confession will escape.

 

But Barnes nods almost solemnly, as if what he just heard makes perfect sense.

 

“I used to have a sister. Before. Her name was Rebecca. I read about her,” Barnes says, what must be minutes later. “I don't remember her. Not really. Sometimes I think I can almost-” he does a little motion with his flesh hand, his head turned sideways, eyes squinting. “I remember... singing. I think she used to sing. She had a beautiful voice.”

 

Tony is staring when Barnes turns towards him.

 

“She died. Some time in the 80s. I haven't gone to see her yet.” He looks at his hands. “I can't.”

 

Tony doesn't reply.

 

Of all the ways he thought this conversation would go, he never thought it would be this.

 

Of all the people who would get it, he never thought it would be him. He hates that it's him.

 

“And yet, you're here,” he says, eyebrow raised, perversely hoping to hurt him.

He feels like a bastard for it, but he can't help himself.

 

“Yet, I'm here,” Barnes agrees.

 

“Why?” Tony asks and there's no concealing the sudden fury in his voice.

 

“Why I'm here?”

 

“What are you doing here? Why today of all days? Why them? Why… her? God, why _her_?” Tony says. It's not what he meant to say, but the words slip out so fast it's like he's been waiting his whole life to know. He has. “What do you want from me? What do you expect me to say?”

 

Tony shakes his head before putting it in his hands. He sighs. It seems like that's all he's been doing since he got here. “If it's forgiveness you want, I can't give it to you.” He turns towards Barnes. “I _can't_.“

 

Barnes looks at him, and Tony is almost afraid of what he might see. He feels like all his nerves are raw, uncovered. As if a gust of wind might undo him. The day started out as an emotional roller coaster and he can't wait to get off of it and throw up.

 

“I know,” Barnes says, and he sounds sincere, earnest. “I know you can't. That's not why I said it. I just… I needed to say it. I needed you to know it.”

 

Tony says nothing.

 

“I come here sometimes.”

 

Tony's head whips around so fast he's sure he strained something.

 

“It's peaceful,” Barnes says again. “Not sure Howard ever did peaceful, to be honest. He used to be so... loud.” A soft chuckle. “But I didn't know him all that well. He was much closer to Steve, I think, than he was to me. I don't know. I don't really remember.”

 

He seems to somber up, the half smile on his lips turning into a grimace.

 

“He made a working version of the serum. Like Steve's. Well, more like mine, I guess. Hydra wanted it and they wanted him dead. That's why. She...” He looks Tony in the eyes, draws in a deep breath. “She was just collateral.”

 

Tony closes his eyes, his hands fists so tight his knuckles are white. “Collateral,” he says, his tone as dead as he's feeling.

 

His mother. His beautiful mother, with her kind smile and her smart eyes.

 

“Yes.”

 

Tony exhales. He can't do this. He thought he could, but he can't. He can't have this conversation. Not here, not today. God, not today. Perhaps not ever.

 

He stands up, dusts off his slacks, starts to leave.

 

“Stark,” Barnes calls, and Tony wants nothing more than to reach his car and get inside his suit, inside the only place he ever felt safe, and fly high, so high the city, this place, this pain will all be too far away.

 

(Let go, let it all go.)

 

He wants to scream. He wants to wreck havoc. He wants to cry.

He needs to leave.

 

He doesn't. He stops, but he doesn't turn. He can't look at Barnes. He can't see the regret and the guilt he's sure he'll be able to read on his face.

 

“I know you hate me,” Barnes says. “You have every right to. Hell, I hate myself.” A self-deprecating chuckle. “I know it's not worth anything but… I _am_ sorry.“

 

Tony closes his eyes again. He thinks about his mom saying goodbye that day. He thinks of all the things he never told her.

He thinks of the 611 million dollars he spent to try and get over it.

He thinks of Obadiah showing up in the middle of the night. Of his face when he told him they were gone. Of the four years he spent on a drinking binge. He thinks of Rhodey, plummeting towards the ground, too fast for him to stop it. He thinks of Steve and his arc reactor crunching under his shield.

He thinks of his whole world falling apart.

 

“I know,” Tony says.

 

And then he leaves.


	2. Longing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank all the people who left kudos, and even more everyone who left such nice comments! I was so not expecting such a warm welcome to the fandom, you guys are amazing, I really couldn't be more grateful! 
> 
> Going with my outline, the story shouldn't be longer than seven or eight chapters, though these two have a way of sneaking up on me, and maybe it'll take them longer to get their shit together...
> 
> I'm trying to stick to a schedule, and update every week, but I won't be making any promises on which days cause these chapters are getting increasingly longer and I don't have as much time as I would like, since I had to start studying again, and I divide my free time between writing and giffing!
> 
> A huge thank you to [superbatfleck ](http://superbatfleck.tumblr.com/) for being wonderful as always and betaing this! 
> 
> Again, you should totally come and say hi on [tumblr](http://thepunisher.tumblr.com), I love to talk about these assholes, discuss headcanons and cry over how marvel is gonna end up treating them unfairly!
> 
> PS, you will have to pry my love for Rhodey and their friendship from my cold, dead hands.

I take no joy in mead nor meat, and song and laughter have become suspicious strangers to me. I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings.

There is an empty place within me where my heart was once.  

 

_George RR Martin, A Clash of Kings_

 

He debates a long time on whether or not he should go. He doesn't want to, of course. Just the thought has him jittery, anxiety buzzing under his skin like electricity, leg bouncing up and down non-stop. And yet it's not like he really has a choice.

 

When the walls of the workshop start closing in on him, sight going fuzzy around the edges, the decision is made for him. He throws the screwdriver he was fidgeting with on the work table, metal hitting the surface with a clang he doesn't even register because he's already out of the door.

 

The Mansion is austere and sterile, ghosts haunting every square metre of it.

 

Tony hates it. He hates the smell of it, the silence, the absolute lack of indication that someone is actually living here. He hates every damn stupid knick knack littering every available surface so much sometimes it's hard not to shove them all on the floor and watch them break in a thousand little pieces.

 

He hates that two decades later he still can't find the courage to go past the doors of the master bedroom. Can only look at his mother's perfume sitting on her vanity from afar, bottle left opened, pearls scattered near her brush.

 

He couldn't really move in his old room, the one of his childhood, of his teenage years. The one with stupid posters of his stupid heroes on the walls and a closet stuffed full of useless trophies that never amounted to anything. Too many memories and too many disappointments there. He took for himself one of the guest rooms. He thinks it's somewhat fitting, considering he's a guest in his own home.

 

It's a house but it feels more like a golden prison and he's been sentenced for life.

 

(He committed too many crimes he needs to atone for, he deserves it.)

 

He could take up and leave of course, like he left the tower, like he left the ruins of Malibu, like he left the compound. Tony Stark is good at leaving broken things behind him.

 

But to go where? He started over many times before and always ended up empty handed anyway. Resilient, yes, but there's nowhere in the world where his demons wouldn't follow, so the Mansion is as good a place as any.

 

He's doing fine, really.

 

(His life is a long line of fine.)

 

Christmas, though. Christmas he doesn't know how to deal with, perhaps he never has, never learned how to.

 

It's never been his favorite holiday, not even when his parents were still alive. Other children would spend the night waiting for Santa, he would be waiting for Howard and Maria to come home from whatever gala or party or get away they'd gone to, Jarvis, and Ana before she passed, his only company.

 

His mother would always look apologetic whenever they got back. She would caress his hair and kiss his cheek and tuck him into bed, her voice soft while singing an italian lullaby.

 

Jarvis would try his best to make the house as festive as possible, and Christmas’ eves were always spent making cookies and reminiscing stories of aunt Peggy’s adventures, and Christmas mornings were always spent unwrapping a pile of presents that would never make up for the indifference.

 

The first few days of January he would always be shipped back to boarding school, his belly fuller and his gaze emptier, head filled with words of inadequacy and sweet nothings.

 

He found Jarvis’ Christmas decorations in a closet, stored with other junk, while setting up Friday’s eyes and ears. He thought for a long time whether or not to make an effort and put some around the house, stared for even longer at a Christmas ball he had made with mechanical parts when he was six. Howard had been pissed at the waste, but Jarvis had looked so proud he's displayed it right at the front of the tree, nevermind that it clashed with the rest of the golden and red ornaments.

 

He didn't throw everything away, but it was a close call.

 

(Perhaps he is nostalgic after all.)

 

Still, there was no reason to put them around. No reason for oversized bunnies, either. And so the house is quiet, no trees, no lights, no presents. No people to celebrate with.

 

He could go on another 72 hours tinkering binge, his go-to way of spending this time of the year, so many things to do after all, but Rhodey would probably come over just to kick his ass, and he can't have Rhodey worry over him. He deserves a break.

 

The invitation came over a week ago, by phone, mail and text. Rhodey really wants him to go and he won't accept a no for an answer. Tony can take a hint.

 

He's gotten into his head that he'll smooth down all the wrinkles on his own. He's putting a lot of effort into making this whole team thing work, and that's really the only reason why Tony is gonna show up at all.

 

He should take the car, rather than fly in, but really, as an escape vehicle, his suit is much faster than his Audi.

 

And Tony is pretty sure that he'll want to escape sooner rather than later.

 

The flight over goes by in a blur, one thought chasing after the other too fast for his mind to linger. He has no recollection of it whatsoever.

 

The sky is white and the atmosphere feels charged when he lands on the roof of the compound. It hasn't started snowing yet, but it's gonna happen any minute now. Everyone has been predicting a white Christmas.

 

The suit disassembles and reassembles behind him in a matter of seconds and a crisp cold engulfs him so suddenly he staggers. He should have taken a coat with him, but he wasn't exactly thinking properly, leaving in a hurry before he could change his mind. Again.

 

The insulation system he installed after he almost froze to death works so well he never even noticed the temperature while in the air, and yet now that he is, it's easy for his mind to travel thousands of miles. For a moment he loses focus of the structure, of the gardens, of the trees around him, of the Quinjet parked in the front courtyard, and the only thing he can hear is the sound of crunching metal, no white pavement, but frozen ground under his feet. His hand moves to his chest before he can even process it, and he finds himself exhaling slowly only when he feels the arc reactor humming under his fingers. Whole.

 

Rationality is the first thing to go out of the window when you panic, and they say that you should make an effort to bring it back, as it's your best tool to fight anxiety, that you should explain to your brain that there's no reason to be scared.

 

(Bullshit.)

 

It's hard to reason when reason also screams that this _is_ a terrible idea, and he should not have come.

 

It's not too late to tuck in tail and leave, but he doesn't. He pats down his hair instead, thankful it's so short so it's probably not too messy, and hopes that there's no engine grease on his rumpled clothes.

 

The Iron Man follows him down inside the compound like a quiet shadow, before parking itself in a hidden niche.

 

There are a few people around the building, operatives who work for the Avengers and keep things in check, run lesser risk operations, keep the world spinning.

Tony waves at them whenever he crosses them in the hallways, Christmas trees and lights and decorations making the place look more alive than he's seen it in a very long time.

 

It's been almost a month since he last made an appearance. He's been upstate less and less since it got crowded again, any excuse good enough to stay as far away as he could.

 

(Sorry, super important SI meeting, Pepper would kill me if I missed it; oops, launch of a new product; you see, I have this thing, and it's much more convenient if I just stay over at the Mansion.)

 

It never felt like home. Not really. Not after they defeated Ultron, and he would stroll in sometimes, bringing tech as presents and basking in a camaraderie that always had him feeling like a guest in his own property. Definitely not after all that was left of the Avengers were him and Rhodey and Vision, and the silence would echo across the hallways.

 

(Home is where the heart is, and he doesn't have one.)

 

“I'm so glad you came, Tones,” says Rhodey the moment he enters the common dining area, and enveloping him in a hug.

 

Tony allows himself to soak in the moment and hugs him back so tightly his bruised ribs protest. He doesn't care.

 

Too soon he lets go, his eyes darting fast across the room, taking in the scene in a matter of seconds.

 

It seems like a century ago that they were all here discussing the Accords, the quiet before the storm, the beginning of the end. The place doesn't even look the same anymore. He tore it down and built it over after Wanda and Vision’s little accident, but every inch of it is burned into his retina like a scar and it's not gray marble he stands on, shiny and whole, but a gaping hole that reaches the foundations; it's not scattered people chatting and a table overfilled with food around him, but too many empty chairs.

 

(None of them look the same. They're all strangers under friendly disguises.)

 

He told everyone that the new look and the new furniture were necessary for structural reasons, but the truth is that it was too painful to walk past those rooms everyday and be constantly reminded of what had been and what no longer was.

 

(Some gaping holes you can't fill.)

 

“Oh, I wouldn't have missed it for the world, Rhode-Bear,” Tony replies nonchalant and he feels like snickering when Rhodey rolls his eyes in the exasperated way that is only reserved for him.

 

He looks good. Steadier than he was even the last time he saw him. He's standing on his own, one arm propped casually on a piece of furniture as an afterthought, as if he doesn't really need it.

 

Tony studies him like an hawk. Guilt clawing at his insides cause he should have made an effort, he should have come more often and not just to check on the braces. He shouldn't have stayed away so much just cause the prospect of facing the others feels like sandpaper across his skin.

 

He takes in Rhodey’s relaxed pose, his brown eyes free of the uneasiness Tony got so used to seeing after the fall and hated with every fibre of his being. His shoulders are not clenched in an effort to handle the pain, physical and not, he knows Rhodey felt for months.

 

Tony hopes the hand squeezing Rhodey’s shoulder, and his half but sincere smile can convey all the words he will never be able to tell him. All the love he will never be able to express.

 

“I was so sure I was going to have to come and drag you here,” Rhodey says, his tone only half joking, and Tony thinks of the half dozen messages of empty excuses he composed on his phone and deleted before he could send them. “I'm really happy you came, man.”

 

“Yeah, well…” He rubs behind his neck. “It's Christmas.”

 

“That, it is,” Rhodey says, before narrowing his eyes. “So would you mind telling me what happened to your face? What's with the black eye and the lip job, Tony. What the hell.”

 

“What, this?” Tony gestures towards the bruises. Shit. He should have put on concealer or something. “I was just sparring with Happy. I got a little distracted and he got carried away. That man has a surprisingly mean hook.”

 

Rhodey scoffs. ”Yeah, nice try. Too bad Happy is in California with Pepper right now. Has been for two weeks, in fact. Wanna try again?”

 

Tony winches. He wonders how long it would take to call his suit to him and run, and if that would be considered rude. Probably. Nevermind that Rhodey would just hop on the War Machine and follow him, and he would never hear the end of it.

 

“Uhm. Funny story,” Tony says, putting some distance between them, hand scratching his nose. “I ran into a door.”

 

He can see Carol chatting with Wanda, Sam and Vision from the corner of his eye. His heart speeds up a little. He knows that not all of them are going to be here, some of them are celebrating with their families and other people. Some of them moved on.

 

(He hasn't.)

 

He thinks he can spot Natasha and Peter behind the tree, but he's not sure. Rogers is nowhere in sight. Nor is his friend.

 

When he turns to face Rhodey again, he meets the most unimpressed stare. “And what? You didn't apologize so it hit you again?”

 

Tony giggles. God, he missed this. Missed him. He feels his shoulders sag a little in relief. This is familiar. He can do this.

 

“It was a very aggressive door. You wouldn't believe it. I'm thinking I'm gonna sue,” he says.

 

Rhodey pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, you show it who's the boss.”

 

“Exactly!”

 

“Tony,” Rhodey says, tone serious again. “I wanna know what's going on with you, okay? I wanna help. I'm here for you, you know. Whatever it is you're doing, you don't have to do it alone.”

 

It's hard to meet his eyes. God, he's such an asshole. He doesn't deserve Rhodey.

 

“I'm not doing anything, I promise,” he says, and it'd be convincing to anyone else but Rhodey knows him better. “Okay, okay. But it’s not like I started a fight club! I'm not doing anything dangerous. Better?”

 

“I'm more worried about you doing something stupid.”

 

Tony sneers. “Come on. When was the last time I did something stupid?”

 

“Oh, I don't know. What time is it?”

 

“Abuse!” Tony cries. “I will not stand by and be insulted. I'll have you know I made the list of the fifty most influential people on the planet for what? The eighth year in a row?” He polishes his nails on his shirt. “That's eight more times than you did, by the way. How is that for stupid?”

 

When he looks up, Rhodey is still staring unimpressively.

 

“You do know I'm the leader of this team right?”

 

Tony fakes a gasp, his hand moving in a clutching-pearls gesture. “What? When did that happen? I can't believe this!” He shakes his head, drops the pretense. “I was kinda there for it, you know? Wholeheartedly supported the idea, in fact, though I'm starting to regret it. You don't need to remind me every three seconds, I get it! You're the leader of the Avengers, sir, yes, sir. It's too bad your girlfriend outranks you, really...”

 

Rhodey sighs. “Yeah, you can drop the attitude, Mr Stank, cause I never will. I'm gonna find out what's going on, sooner or later.” He points his index at Tony.  “You know I will. And when I do, I will kick your sorry as--”

 

“Mr Stark! Mr Stark!” Peter calls from across the room, making them both turn. “Merry Christmas, Mr Stark!”

 

“Nice to see you again, Tony,” says Carol, beautiful in a dark blue oversized cardigan and jeans, as she and Peter make their way towards them and Tony is so grateful for the distraction he can't stop himself from sighing in relief.

 

“Hey there, kid,” he says, ruffling Peter's hair.  He's wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and a happy expression on his face, like a child in a candy store.

 

“Carol. Always a pleasure.” He smiles, kisses her cheek.

 

“So,” he rubs his hands together. “What have you been up to?”

 

“Not much,” Carol says, inching towards Rhodey and resting her hand on his shoulder. Tony can see Rhodey’s whole demeanor lighting up, like a sunflower basking in the sun. It puts the first real smile on Tony’s face. “Things have been blessedly quiet.”

 

“Don't jinx it,” says Rhodey, eyes soft.

 

“How about you, kid? Helped any old lady cross the street lately?” Tony asks Peter.

 

“Ha. Ha. Very funny,” Peter replies. “I don't just help old ladies,” he mumbles grudgingly, almost too low to hear.

 

“You're adorable,” says Tony. “Is that Green... Elf. Whatever. Is he been giving you any trouble?”

 

“You've been listening to my reports?” Peter asks in a happily surprised tone, eyes huge.

 

“Well, duh. When have I ever stopped?” He raises an eyebrow. “So? Do I need to be concerned?”

 

“Uh. No. No, Mr Stark,” says Peter fast. “I have everything under control! And it's Goblin. Green Goblin.”

 

“Pfff,” Tony waves his hand. “Goblin, Elf. Same difference. He still looks stupid. You listen to me, kid. Anything goes south, you call me, okay? I don't want you out there alone. Again.”

 

“Oh, please, Tony,” interrupts Rhodey. “Peter is much more responsible than you'll ever be. And he knows who to call when he's in trouble. Which is me. Am I right?” He gives Peter a meaningful look.

 

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir,” Peter blushes.

 

“See? Adorable,” Tony says. “Now leave him alone, I got him first. Go play mama hen with some other kid. This one is mine.”

 

Carol laughs at the two of them while Rhodey sputters and Peter gets more scarlet.

 

For a second Tony almost thinks that everything is going to be okay.

 

“It's good to see you, Tony,” says Rogers then, appearing behind Peter, and it's like someone poured frozen water over Tony’s head. “It's been a while.”

 

He's carrying two enormous plates, one in each hand. His hair is longer than the short, practical style Tony was used to see him sport, combed back, curling under his nape. There's an easy smile, almost shy, half hidden behind his beard. He's wearing a sweater almost as ugly as Peter's, with maroon reindeers with red noses.

 

Tony feels like his limbs have suddenly turned into lead, and they're too heavy for him to move. It takes a couple of seconds to put a smile back on his own face, and he's pretty sure it looks forced despite his best effort. “Cap,” he says, and it sounds strained even to his ears. He shoves one hand inside the pocket of his pants. “Well, you know how it is. Companies to run, millions to make, and all that.”

 

Everyone is quiet around them, almost like they're waiting for a bomb to go off.

 

(It already exploded. They're all wounded beyond saving.)

 

“Right,” says Rogers, and his face falls a little. “Yeah, you're busy, I know. It's just…” He juggles with the plates for a second before finding a balance. He eyes Tony’s bruises and Tony sees him hesitate, the words he means to say at the tip of his tongue. “Well, I'm glad you're here today,” he says, in the end. “I better put these down before I make a mess.” He smiles again, though it looks a little tighter, before heading towards the table.

 

There's a small awkward silence that no one is fast enough to fill.

 

 _That went well,_ Tony thinks, when he remembers to start breathing again.

 

He's still in a haze when he realises that Barnes is looming a few feet away from them, arms crossed over his chest. When he meets Tony's eyes, he nods. Tony blinks a couple of times before nodding back.

 

When he looks around he sees everyone exchange nervous glances. A couple of them sigh audibly.

 

“Well, I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving,” proclaims Rhodey. “Let's get this party started.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

He doesn't think anyone notices when he slips out. Rhodey and Carol are sitting on the same sofa, almost no space between them and there's a smile on Rhodey’s face Tony hasn't seen in a very long time. A smile that he never thought he would see again. It hurts deep inside Tony's chest, almost like it's getting a little hard to breathe, and if he stumbles so hard he needs the wall to steady himself, he's already in the hallway and it's nobody's business.

 

When he makes it to the roof, it's to find it already covered in white, his shoes leaving prints behind. It's been snowing for hours now.

 

It's cold and not for the first time he regrets not having taken a coat with him. He's sure he must have one or ten in his apartment here at the compound, but he hasn't set foot in there in a while, and he doesn't really want to.

 

He reaches the railing and stops, rests both hands on the granite, and it's like whatever force was holding him upright is failing him. He closes his eyes and breathes in the quiet, lets the air, sharp and brisk, fill his lungs.

 

It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but he still feels emotionally drained. There's an undercurrent of distrust between them all that it seems they're all politely agreeing to ignore for the sake of making things work. He doesn't know if he should be grateful for that or not, but he sure is grateful for Clint’s absence. And for Peter and Carol’s presence.

 

He wouldn't have made it without them acting as a buffer. He felt his heart constrict in his chest each time Rogers attempted to start a conversation, his jaw hurts from biting his teeth down too hard.

 

Someday in the future, perhaps, when he'll have made peace with himself and they'll have made peace with each other, someday, he'll be ‘Steve’ again, and calling him ‘Cap’ will roll off Tony’s tongue without faltering first. Not today though. Today he's an empty vessel filled with brashness and good manners.

 

Today his wound is still festering.

 

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, the grass that surrounds the building is slowly but steadily being covered by an inch of snow and it's sort of hypnotic to watch. The sky is whiter than ever, despite it being late afternoon and his breath is coming out in small puffs of smoke when he feels like he got himself under control.

 

He used to love snow, back when he was a kid. He was never allowed to go out and play with it, never really had anyone to play with either, that was a privilege that belonged to other kids, kids that were free. But he could watch. He'd see children throwing snowballs and building snowmen and he would long for that, his brain supplying faster trajectories and aerodynamic shapes.   

 

Those fantasies disappeared the older he got, but the longing never really did. The longing of belonging.

 

(He never truly belonged anywhere and anyone who ever belonged to him left him behind.)

 

Tony cups his palms to his mouth and blows on them, uselessly trying to warm them up a little, his fingers numb. He should go back inside. He doesn't want to.

 

“You're gonna catch a cold,” says a voice from somewhere to his right and he's not proud of the high pitched sound that comes out of his lips.

 

Instinct has him strucking his hands out in defense as he turns around looking for threats. He made the mistake of assuming he was safe.

 

“Jesus Christ,” he exhales when he spots Barnes. He's sitting on the floor leaning to the railing, head tilted back, elbows resting on his knees, eyes closed. There's snow on his hair, some strands are wet. The top of his black henley appears soaked.

 

“Nah, just me,” says Barnes cheekily.

 

How long has he been there?

 

He finds himself walking towards him and he stops when he's only a few feet away. A few seconds ago he was almost all the way across the terrace. He doesn't remember moving.

 

“I do have a heart condition, you know,” Tony says, and he drums his fingers over his chest, hearing the glass ticking. Something flashes behind his eyes and suddenly he's back in Siberia again, Barnes digging his metal digits into the arc reactor of the suit, the uni beam ripping his arm off in one clean shot. He shakes his head to clear it, stumbling back, he hits the concrete railing behind him, and he looks up, wary that Barnes might have noticed, but Barnes hasn't moved at all.

 

Barnes snorts and it takes him a second to remember that he said something to prompt that reaction.

 

Tony narrows his eyes, angry at his own stupidity. Angry that his heart is beating too fast. Embarrassed that he allowed himself to be vulnerable when he should have been the least. That past and present collide every time he forgets to breathe and he doesn't know how to stop one from pouring into the other.

 

(He doesn't know how to live.)

 

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” he says. “Or we gotta stop meeting period, really. I'm good with either.”

 

Barnes says nothing, but Tony could swear his lips are twitching a little. He was not joking, not really. It hurts to see him.

 

He spent almost the entire week thinking about their last encounter, musing over all the things he should have done differently, all the words he should have said instead. He doesn't want to acknowledge any of it.

 

He's stuck in a limbo. He wants to move on but he can't get past it. It's not fair.

 

(It's not fair to either of them.)

 

“Are you following me?” Tony asks, cause it can't really be another coincidence. Whatever deity who loves to play games with his life wouldn't be this cruel.

 

Barnes looks up at that, one eyebrow raised. Someone should have gotten him a razor for Christmas, his face seems to always be sporting some kind of permanent stubble. There's snowflakes on his lashes as well, his eyes are really blue. “I was here first, actually. Are _you_ following me?”

 

It's Tony's turn to snort.

 

He's the last person he wants to be alone with. Well, perhaps Rogers takes that gold medal, but Barnes comes a close second.

 

(Untrue. It's himself he doesn't want to be alone with, but there's nothing he can do about that.)

 

He came to the roof to regroup, to get himself together. He should have gone to his workshop, in hindsight that was clearly a much smarter idea. Less risk of running into people he'd rather avoid there. But he did actually need some air, and the workshop is filled with half abandoned projects he's been putting off for too long. He doesn't need a reminder of all the things he's yet to do. Of all he should come back to.

 

The wind is whipping Barnes’ hair around his face, and Tony registers for the first time that Barnes is not wearing a coat either.

 

“What's with you and your aversion for jackets?” he asks, remembering he was wearing just a hoodie back at the cemetery as well. “You know, those things you use when it's cold? Ever heard of them?” He shivers, rubbing his hands together to no avail. The temperature doesn't seem to be affecting Barnes at all, despite the fact that he must have sat there under the snow for far longer than Tony figures.

 

“You mean those heavy things that keep you warm? Pretty sure we had those last century too,” Barnes replies, tone dry. Asshole thinks he's funny, wonderful.

 

“Guess it's one of the perks of being a super soldier,” Tony mutters.

 

Barnes shrugs.

 

Tony turns to face the garden again, leaning forwards, elbows resting on the railing. He spots Peter throwing a snowball to Sam before taking cover behind a tree, Wanda using her powers to hit Vision with much more snow than is usually polite. Vision doesn't seem too upset as it goes right through him. “That's cheating!” Wanda screams, laughter in her voice.

 

“I don't mind the cold,” Barnes says, voice so soft, Tony almost misses it. “Reminds me of cryo. Cryo meant peace for me.” He lets out a long exhale. “There were no missions in cryo.”

 

Tony doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

 

He wonders if Barnes has any other reason for disclosing such truths other than to unsettle him. If he's even aware that he's doing it. That he's baring himself to a stranger. A stranger who tried to kill him.

 

When he angles his face to see him, he finds that Barnes hasn't moved, head still tilted back, eyes still closed. Hair and shirt wetter.

 

“Why didn't you stay in cryo then?” he asks, not sure why. “In Wakanda, I mean.”

 

“That… that wasn't really my decision.”

 

“Steve,” Tony says, cause it's not really a question. He already knows the answer.

 

“I guess the world needed me.” Barnes shrugs again. “Well, they needed my... talents.”

 

Tony is quiet for a while. He thinks back at the battle with Thanos, at the world disintegrating under their feet. At the certainty that they wouldn't have made it. That he'd disappointed them all cause he hadn't tried hard enough, he hadn't planned ahead enough, despite knowing what was coming. Despite having felt it in his bones.

 

“What about now?” he says eventually. Thinking that if it was him, if he had a way to turn it all off to find even some semblance of serenity, he would go on his knees and beg for it.

 

Barnes brow furrows. “Why don't I go back to cryo?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

It's a while before Barnes replies. He turns his head away when he does, gaze distant. “I thought about it. I think about it a lot actually. It's not like the world really needs me anymore. _No one_ really needs me.”

 

Tony makes a sound at that. “Pretty sure your buddy would disagree.”

 

Barnes shakes his head, wet strands falling in front of his eyes. “Stevie doesn't understand. He's still waiting for his best friend and that man is dead. He’s been dead for a very long time.”

 

“Why don't you then?”

 

Barnes’ lips twist in a parody of a smile. “Guess that would make a lot of people happy, wouldn't it?”

 

Tony stays quiet. He thinks about it. Would it?

 

Not having to see him would certainly be easier for him, but it wouldn't change much of anything at all. His parents would still be dead. Steve would still have lied.

 

Barnes looks at his hands. “I've… I've killed _a lot_ of people. I don't even know how many. I've been Hydra’s puppet for a very long time. Nothing will ever take that back. There's no undoing the things I've done.”

 

When he meets Tony’s eyes, there's no hiding the depth of his sorrow.

 

(It's like looking in a mirror.)

 

“I can't go to sleep. I don't think I… I can't go to sleep.”

 

 _I don't think I deserve it_ , Tony thinks. That's what he meant to say, he doesn't know how but he's sure of it.

 

Tony opens his mouth to say something. He doesn't know what yet, but he feels like he has to say something.

 

“There you are, Buck! I've been looking all over for you,” comes from behind them, and Tony jerks upright as if burned. When he turns around he finds Rogers standing at the door.

 

The moment Rogers spots him, Tony can see his friendly expression turn into one of confusion, then concern, eyes darting from Tony to Barnes before settling on Tony.

 

“Hey, Tony,” he says, tentative. “I thought you already left.”

 

He turns to Barnes, gaze assessing. “Everything alright?” he asks, and it's stupid but the two words hurt Tony more than they have any right to, more than he expects them to, despite the fact that he knew they were coming.

 

Rogers doesn't trust them to be alone together. It's fair. But it's a reminder that something between the two of them is fundamentally broken.

 

Some broken things you can fix, assembling the pieces if you can find them all, and gluing them back together. Some will still work, as good as new, but they will always carry the cracks like scars. In some, the water will find a way to filter through those cracks, and they'll be whole, but not _whole_.

 

Which ones will they be?

 

(The glue is still drying for them. Soon they'll know.)

 

“As a matter of fact, I was just leaving,” Tony says, and a handful of seconds later the suit flies to him and he's encased in its shell. Safe again.

 

“Well, this was nice,” he says, already hovering a few feet off the floor. Barnes and Rogers are both looking at him. Barnes’ hands are closed into fists, Rogers mouth is hanging open. “Let's never do it again.”

 

He waves once, before lifting off. He doesn't wait for a reply. If it comes, he doesn't hear it. He's already gone.


	3. Haunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! I meant to post this sooner, but life kinda got in the way… 
> 
> Your comments for chapter 2 had me cackling madly :D
> 
> I'm gonna clarify this, since a few people seemed concerned: there'll be no Steve bashing in this fic. I love Steve. I think Steve was an asshole to Tony in cw and he'll need to work really hard to get in my good graces again, but I'm not gonna use this fic to spread Steve hate. 
> 
> Khang, I love you. This chapter would not exist without you. Thank you so much for your patience, your support and your suggestions.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this! As usual, comments are more than welcome :)
> 
> PLEASE MIND THE TAGS.

8\. I came home on Tuesday and found all of the chairs that I own stacked in a tower in the center of my kitchen.  
I don’t know how long they had been like that but it can only be me that did it.  
It’s the kind of thing a ghost might do to prove to the living that he is still there.  
I am haunting my own apartment.

 _  
_ _Doc Luben, 14 lines from love letters or suicide notes_

  


He jolts awake, a scream on his lips, gasping for breath, heart pounding inside his chest.

 

He's disoriented at first, frantic, not making any sense of the bed, the room, the ceiling. It takes a few seconds to place where he is, but the realization does nothing to quiet the roar in his ears.

 

(He's still falling. Falling, falling, falling. There's no stopping, there's no ground beneath him, there's no air. He's surrounded by darkness.)

 

He struggles to free himself from the covers, their weight, their texture impossibly unbearable for his too sensitive skin. He only manages to tumble off the bed, sheets still tangled around his legs and his movements are too frenzied and uncoordinated, it takes him a minute to get them off. And then he's crawling a few paces away, throwing them off of himself as if they were on fire.

 

(He is on fire.)

 

He folds himself in half on the floor, head between his legs, arms hugging his knees, wheezing.

 

The taste of ozone lingers on his mouth each time he sucks in a breath.

 

He can hear Friday's soothing voice over the loud buzzing of his brain, but he can't make out the words she's saying. He squeezes his eyes shut.

 

(He's in a cave. He's in space. He's in a bunker.)

 

It'll pass.

 

(He's dead. They're all dead. He killed them. They killed him.)

 

Panic attacks can only last for so long. The body cannot withstand that kind of pressure for over a certain amount of time.

It's not helpful knowledge when a minute lasts a lifetime. When his hands shake so hard he has to force them into tight fists. When even breathing is a task he fails at.

 

He rocks himself back and forth, eyes wet.

 

(It'll pass.)

 

When it's gone, when his muscles stop spasming and he lets himself fall backwards, head dropping to the floor with a thud, each nerve ending almost fried - when it's done, and Tony is a person again and not a bundle of white noise, he lets out a long exhale and closes his eyes.

 

Centuries later, he becomes aware of the cold sweat drying on his skin, his threadbare tank top clinging to him like a second skin, wet and uncomfortable; the glass of water he knocked off the bedside table, shards everywhere; the digital clock blinking 2:34am in angry red. The exhaustion a dead weight on his soul.

 

He stands up on wobbly legs, and waits a few seconds to make sure he won't topple over before putting one foot in front of the other with uttermost care. He dumps his shirt on the floor along with his boxers as he walks to the bathroom unsteadily, the marble cold under his bare feet.

 

He doesn't bother with the lights, doesn't pause at the mirror. He hops in the shower and he doesn't wait for the water to reach a comfortable temperature before throwing himself under its spray. It's freezing at first, but he doesn't really register it. Soon it's so hot it's scalding, but Tony doesn't move. He stands there, water pouring over his head, pasting his hair to his forehead, and down his body, painting his skin red. He braces one hand on the wall, the contact the only thing keeping him upright and for the longest time he just watches the water drains, not really seeing it.

 

He's used to nightmares and he's used to panic attacks. He's good at neither.

 

(He's not good at much these days.)

 

There's no light at the end of some tunnels. No getting out of some locked rooms. Some tunnels you start to decorate. Some rooms you settle in.

 

Some darkness, you feel at home in.

 

There's no way in hell he's going to go back to sleep, nor face the mess he left in the room. The mess inside his head. So Tony gets out of the shower and grabs a fluffy white towel, doing a poor job of patting himself dry, its soft fibres still too harsh on his skin.

 

He bypasses the bed and goes straight for the closet, grabbing a graphic shirt at random and putting on a pair of well worn jeans over clean underwear.

 

Lights still off, he heads down to the workshop.

 

Time to tinker.

 

Dum-E stirs from his charging station when he enters, and greets him with a whirring sound. Tony pats him on the head, ignoring the countless cardboard boxes scattered all over, covering most worktables and moves towards one of the few free spots, sitting on a bench.

 

“Give me some music, Fri,” he says, and as Friday complies, the room is filled with too loud hard rock. Loud enough that he can't hear himself think.

 

With a flick of his wrist a project appears in a flash of blue light. He takes apart something irrelevant, something of no consequence. He just needs to keep his hands busy, his brain on stand by.

 

It's not long before one of the monitors that takes up an entire wall bleeps an alert. The algorithms are always running in the background and, every once in awhile, a false positive throws him off, but more often than not, though not as often as he would like, something very real pops up.

 

He spends some time sorting through the incoming data, analysing blueprints, confronting stats to form a half coherent plan of action, and even longer debating whether he should wait for a day in which he's not in such turmoil - why bother? - or for a moment in which his hands won't tremble anymore - a waste of time.

 

Fourteen missions, four months, hundreds of files, dozens of junk and memorabilia.

 

He put together crumbs bit by bit, and yet something is always missing. He doesn't know what will take to complete his puzzle, or if there's no closure to be had and he's just deluding himself and what he's searching for are not facts and pieces, but just a reason wake up in the morning.

 

But there's no choice to make, not really. He only spares a second to strip and put on the underarmor, the black fabric fitting him like a glove.

 

It's gonna take him a little less than two hours to reach Oregon, if he pushes it. Plenty of time to catch his breath.

  


\----------------------

  


The building is massive and block-like, a monstrous thing that seems to sprout from the ground, and it's the only form of civilization hidden between miles and miles of vegetation. An iron fence circles its perimeter, with old cameras mounted every hundred yard or so, most of them busted.

 

Nothing looks particularly recent in terms of tech, but Tony takes no chances, Friday running every scan, keeping an eye out for silent alarms and explosives. Three of the five Hydra bases he raided between December and January had been burned down to a crisp quite recently. One was still smoking when he got there.

 

Tony doesn't know if Hydra is just covering its tracks, aware that someone is targeting their old hideouts, or if he needs to look out for a new player, but there's no harm in being overly cautious.

 

It's a child's game getting past the fence and the main gate. Getting inside the grid and looping the security cameras feed, just in case, is a couple of minutes’ job and after that he easily makes his way to the subterranean floors, quiet as a mouse, his black and golden armor almost invisible in the dark.

 

Nothing jumps out of the shadows and no guards appear out of thin air to attack him. The place reeks of abandonment.

 

Level -1 is a labyrinth he can navigate only thanks to the blueprints he acquired, each hallway the same as the one before, a long stretch of dust and concrete, the air stale.

 

His reactors light the way as Friday doesn't detect any heat signature in proximity, close or otherwise. The place has been deserted for at least a decade. Everything is silent except for the mute mechanical whirring of the armor joints as he moves.

 

The doors are big and heavy, and it'd be satisfying to blow them up with a small well placed missile, but he's not 100% sure of what's on the other side.

Tony discovered the wrong way Hydra's predilection for booby traps.

 

The security system is old but solid, and it takes him a good five minutes to hack into the panel controlling the lock and work his way around it. The doors slide open with a loud screeching sound of metal striding, and he holds his breath, but no alarm breeches the night.

 

He detects a strong smell of mold even through the faceplate filters as soon as he steps over the threshold. The room spacious, its surface almost entirely occupied by cabinets.

 

“Jackpot,” Tony says, using a gauntlet to lighten the place enough to see.

 

Some cabinets are sideways, a few on the floor, gutted, drawers spilling their contents like entrails. Most have faded labels, and he can't find any logical sorting system as he looks around.

 

“Friday?” he calls.

 

“All clear, boss.”

 

He lets the suit disassemble behind him. He's gonna need patience and his dexterity to find anything remotely useful in this mess.

 

“Sentry mode,” he says, and the armor takes its place behind him, ever vigilant.

 

He takes a small torchlight from one of the suit’s compartments and puts it in his mouth, teeth clicking, opening a drawer at random from the cabinet nearest to him.

 

All the folders are pretty much irrelevant. Contracts, properties, business transactions, some over fifty years old, paper turned yellow with age. Some corporate names look familiar, and he takes pictures, making a mental note to check on their current status. It's tedious but necessary work, and with a sigh, he moves on to another drawer, another cabinet.

 

He's not even sure what he's looking for, not really, but he knows he's gonna find something. Hacking his way online has been pretty much useless so far. Hydra is good at what it does, always has been. But this is one of the bases where they kept _him_ , and if experience taught him anything, it’s that they always left something behind.

 

Forty minutes later, neck sore and eyes dry, he stiffens, shoulders going tight, stomach dropping under his feet, as he recognises the first name in hundreds he must have read so far.

 

_Stane._

 

A large sum of money addressed to one Obadiah Stane, May 12th, 1987.

 

When his heart starts beating again, Tony hurries through the pages, paper whistling between his fingers. Schematics for weapons, guns, bombs. Stark Industries prototypes. More checks. 1985, 1989. 1990.

 

It's ridiculous how a strip of black ink has the power to turn his insides into molten lava. How a string of words and numbers can turn him into stone.

 

He has come to terms with Stane’s corruption a long time ago, or at least he thought he had.

 

But then he sees it, December 16th, 1991.

 

He sees it and he stops breathing, pain gripping his chest in a vice. He stumbles back, torchlight falling to the floor.

 

His back hits a cabinet, and the metal rattles loudly in the silence, almost as loud as his heart.

 

 _He made a working version of the serum._ Barnes’ words echo in his mind. _Hydra wanted it and they wanted him dead. That's why._

 

It has drilled a hole inside his brain for over two months cause how, how had Hydra known about the serum, when Howard was so secretive about his projects? And how could they have known when and where to attack and to take it? Howard was a lot of things, but he was not careless.

 

Deep down he had known. Deep down Tony had always known, the thought like a virus nagging at the back of his mind, corrupting his memories.

 

Was he thinking about the money when he hugged Tony in the middle of the night, whispering soothing words to a son who had just lost his parents? Did he go home twirling his moustache in glee because he had taken a threat out of the equation? A rival? A pawn.

One he had used as long as it suited him, just like he had Tony.

 

It’s just another betrayal he expected and yet is not prepared for. All these months hunting Hydra down, carrying his one man crusade, trying to understand, trying to erase. Trying to move forward.

 

(There's no moving forward. There's only the past coming full circle, eating its own tail.)

 

He pushes himself upright, hoping to find more files in some other folders, but the cabinet he was leaning on falls backward and finds the floor with a loud bang.

 

Nothing happens for the longest second, and his shoulders drop in relief, when all the lights turn on suddenly, bathing the room in white-blue neon.

 

Tony barely even flinches, retinas burning, before something flies over his head and starts shooting. The drawer where his hand just was, covered in holes, shredded papers exploding in the air like confetti.

 

The suit engages immediately as Tony runs to take cover, repulsors blasting several times, their target moving swiftly in a zigzag motion before getting hit and falling to the floor heavily.

 

“Fuck,” Tony mutters, as two more flying robots enter the room, spraying bullets.

 

“Friday!” he yells, and the armor tries to dodge and attack, several cabinets bursting in flames when it misses its mark.

 

Tony holds his breath and crawls his way out of the line of fire, clutching the Stane folder in one hand, so tightly he's creasing the sheets.

 

Two gun shots resonate loudly in the room, and a moment later he hears something hit the ground. He turns to see both robots on the floor, unmoving.

When he looks towards the doorway it's to see the snout of a rifle, gunmetal still smoking.

 

“What the fuck,” Tony finds himself saying in disbelief, as his gaze runs past the weapon and finds metal fingers on the trigger and one intense blue eyed stare.

 

Barnes advances with sure strides, swinging his rifle left and right, checking the perimeter. He's wearing his tactical gear, black from head to toe, combat boots silent as he shortens the distance between them.

 

For a second, Tony is half afraid he's facing Hydra’s executioner again, but Barnes doesn't shoot again.

 

“Take what you came here for, and hurry. We gotta go,” he says instead, voice quiet and commanding when he's a few steps away.

 

“What the fuck,” Tony repeats a little less breathy but no less stunned.

 

“They know someone's here. You tripped an alarm,” Barnes says. “There's more incoming.”

 

 _What the fuck_ , he refrains to say for a third time, knowing it would not be enough to convey his stupor.

 

“So, you _are_ following me,” Tony manages when he finds his voice again, pointing an accusing finger.

 

“So not the time, Stark,” Barnes replies, eyes darting across the room with focused precision, searching for threats.

 

“Oh, I think it's the perfect time. What the hell is going on? Why are you here? How did you know I was here?

 

Barnes sighs, takes advantage of the moment of relative peace, no psychotic drones attacking. “Rhodes was worried about you.”

 

Tony sputters. “ _Rhodey_ asked you to follow me?”

 

The cabinet on his left rattles, bullets piercing it in rapid succession and turning it into a colander, the sound so loud Tony’s ears ring. He doesn't have time to react before Barnes is on him, pushing Tony behind him with enough force Tony's sure Barnes must have left a handprint on his chest. With Tony behind him, Barnes raises his left arm like a shield, bullets bouncing off of it.

 

Tony sees Barnes grunt and stagger back a couple of steps before pointing his rifle so fast it's a blur and shooting the bot off with perfect accuracy.

 

He doesn't have time to protest nor to process the fact that Bucky fucking Barnes apparently just saved his life, before five more bots appear.

 

Tony wastes no time and hops into the suit, taking care of one with a couple of well placed hits.

When he finishes disposing the second one, he turns just in time to see Barnes shooting one off, arm steady, aim never wavering before leaping high enough to grab another one off the air and pulling it apart with his bare hands. He throws a knife across the room at the third and last bot. It hits it dead centre, and the bot falls noisily, while Tony is hovering uselessly.

 

He’s grateful for his faceplate cause he's quite sure his mouth has been hanging open for the past minute at least.

 

There's no point in denying even to himself that it's almost fascinating watching Barnes fight, the calibrated precision with which he moves, each blow hitting its target perfectly, no wastes. Something about it reminds him of Natasha.

 

He heard from Rhodey that the two spar quite often together.

 

(He hears from Rhodey more than he would care to know.)

 

He's still staring when an increasingly faster beeping noise fills the room. He looks around frantic and his eyes fall on the angry red lights flashing in all the bots.

 

“Fuck,” he mutters, throwing himself on Barnes, with no hesitation, lifting him off his feet and flying as fast as he can, hoping to get away in time.

 

He's not fast enough. The explosion finds them when they’re almost out of the building, propelling them both forward and throwing them violently against a wall.

 

Tony barely has time to flip their positions to catch the worst of the impact, thinking his armor surely is better protection than combat gears.

 

His head hurts and the hud flickers, making him dizzier. He groans, managing to sit on all fours.

 

Plaster falls all around them, but the fire doesn't consume the upper levels.

 

Barnes grunts, gets up on unsure legs. He pauses for a handful of heartbeats, hand on the wall to steady himself, eyes closed.

 

When he opens them again he stands straighter. “We need to leave,” he says, already walking towards the gates. “The bots activated when you tripped the alarm. Hydra would have been alerted. They're probably on their way already.”

 

“See, you keep saying that,” Tony says, prissy. “But how do I know it wasn't you who tripped the alarm, Mr. Brooding Stalker.”

 

Barnes levels him with a stare. “I'm the Winter Soldier, Stark. I don't trip alarms. Beside, I know this base. I was kept here for a while.”

 

Tony doesn't say, I know. He doesn't say, that's one of the reasons I'm here. He doesn't mention the stasis room he found when he explored the building earlier. Doesn't say he got claustrophobic just by looking at the cryo chamber.

 

He clears his throat instead. “You still haven't said why you're here,” he says, and his left boot keeps sputtering, hud marking it in angry red.

 

“Flying system compromised,” Friday informs him, and he could compensate with his other boot and his repulsors. It would be an uncomfortable flight, but he could make it. He drops to the ground instead and starts walking, falling two steps behind Barnes.

 

“Rhodes _was_ concerned about you. But he doesn't know I'm here. I’d like to keep it that way.” He's pensive for a moment. “He doesn't know you're here either.”

 

“So why are you here?” Tony asks.

 

“This may come as a huge surprise to you, but believe it or not, you're not the only one with a grudge against Hydra.”

 

Too many thoughts go through his mind too fast to grasp, too inconsistent to follow through. There's a lot he feels he should say and even more he knows he shouldn't.

 

In the end, Tony says nothing, and they keep on walking away from the building at a brisk pace, vegetation getting tighter around them.

 

“It still doesn't explain why you're following me,” he says, some time later.

 

“I'm not.”

 

Tony snorts.

 

“We got more in common than you think,” Barnes says cryptically, before abruptly turning left.

 

(He knows.)

 

“That's my ride,” Barnes says, and he doesn't wait for a reply.

 

Tony follows.

 

Amidst a clearing in the mass of trees, he can see some flickering, the tell tale sign of retro reflective panels.

 

They both board the Quinjet in silence, automatic door closing behind them.

 

“I'm probably gonna pass out soon,” Barnes says, as soon as they do, tone almost conversational.

Tony whips around in time to see him stumble and lean heavily against the wall.

 

“What?” Tony asks. “What do you mean ‘pass out’? Why would you pass out?”

 

Barnes is breathing heavily, both arms clutching his middle. It's eerily terrifying how wholly different he seems from the focused machine he was while fighting, he was until now. Like a puppet whose strings have been cut off. When he takes one hand away, the flesh one, it comes away crimson.

 

For a moment, Tony can't make sense of it. “Why the hell are you bleeding?” he almost yells, getting out of the suit and coming to Barnes fast, slapping his hands away to take a look himself.

 

There's several holes in the fabric of his vest.

 

Bullet holes.

 

He never noticed the blood in the dark, the black of Barnes’ uniform masking it. Barnes had never wavered inside the archive. Never stumbled once.

 

Tony’s mind reviews the entire fight in a matter of seconds. Barnes shooting bots, Barnes taking them apart with brute force. Barnes shielding him.

 

He falters, heart fluttering inside his chest like a hummingbird’s wings.

 

He must have been hit protecting him.

 

“Why the fuck is this not bulletproof?” Tony asks, distress making his voice higher than he would like.

 

“It is,” Barnes says, through gritted teeth.

 

“Does this look bulletproof to you?”

 

“I'll be fine. It's just superficial. The kevlar must have absorbed most of the impact.”

 

“Oh, sure. You look totally fine.”

 

“Stark,” Barnes tries, but Tony is not really listening.

 

“Oh my god, Steve is gonna kill me.” He runs his hands through his hair, pacing the length of the plane.

 

How could he explain that he never even knew Barnes was with him? That it wasn't him who shot him? How can he take him back to the compound when, according to Barnes, no one even knew he left? Would anyone listen?

 

He knows how it would look, no matter the truth. Steve's concerned stare back at the Christmas party is still too fresh in his mind.

 

“Stark,” repeats Barnes, a little more forcefully.

 

Tony doesn't hear him. “Scratch that! Rhodey is gonna kill me first.”

He's been working so hard trying to build a bridge between all of them, trying to build a team again. How to tell him that he's been working on his own behind his back for months and he got Barnes hurt in the process?

 

He's not ready to give up his hunt.

 

“ _I'm_ gonna kill you, if you don't pull yourself together,” Barnes mutters.

 

It gets Tony’s attention, grounding him. He turns to Barnes.

 

“Yeah, you already tried that. Didn't really work out for you, did it,” he says, and it comes out harsher than he intended. None of this would be happening if Barnes had just minded his own business.

 

Barnes is quiet for a while. “I never tried to kill you,” he says, dead serious.

 

“Right,” Tony says drily.

 

“I never tried to kill you,” Barnes repeats. “If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead.”

 

Something in the flatness of his tone bothers Tony.

 

His breathing is labored, his left hand leaning on the wall denting the metal.

 

“We need to take off,” Tony says, letting go. They wasted too much time already. Barnes needs medical attention and he doesn't want to be here when Hydra shows up.

 

“Can you fly this thing?” Barnes ask. “I'd rather not, but I will if you can't.”

 

Tony scoffs. “I designed this thing.”

 

He reaches for Barnes again, putting one arm under his, supporting him as they advance towards the seats of the cockpit, Barnes’ long hair tickling his cheek.

 

It's the closest they've ever been, no murderous rage between them, no armor.

 

For a fleeting second he thinks he can smell a whiff of coconut. He shakes his head.

 

“Yeah, good for you. But can you fly it?” Barnes asks, through gritted teeth. Tony has no idea how he's still standing, let alone talking.

 

“Put pressure on the wounds,” he says as Barnes sits heavily in the chair next to the pilot’s. Tony helps him strap himself in before heading over to the pilot seat and starting a fast flight check.

 

“I can fly anything,” he says distractedly, when he's satisfied.

 

Barnes makes a sound that resembles a snort. He coughs after. “I had no idea we had the best pilot in the Resistance on board.”

 

Tony stops mid motion, he’s so stunned he turns around, mouth hanging open. “Did you just-- was that a Star Wars reference?”

 

“Stark. For fuck's sake,” Barnes says, but there's something that looks like a small smile on his lips. It soften his features.

 

“Right. Priorities. Friday?”

 

“All set up, boss,” comes from the speakers.

 

“Then takes us home, Fri. To the Mansion. Maximum stealth,” he orders, and they take off smoothly, the engines a soft humming under their feet.

 

Five minutes in, the Big Empty already a dot behind them, he engages the autopilot and walks to Barnes.

 

He's sitting with his eyes closed, brows furrowed, hands tightly gripping the armrests.

 

“Alright. Take your top off,” Tony says, gesturing to the uniform. He needs to assess the gravity of the situation.

 

Barnes opens one eye, looks at Tony up and down. “I usually require a little more romancing than this, before putting out.”

 

Tony blinks stupidly a couple of times, caught off guard, brain stuttering. He swallows. It's probably the blood loss, he figures. He clears his throat. “Yeah, well,” he says, lamely, but Barnes is already freeing himself from the safety belts and he's unfastening his tac vest.

 

He barely flinches when he lifts his arms over his head to take the black thermal off, but he doesn't make a sound even though he must be in incredible pain.

 

“I'll be fine,” he repeats as Tony takes in the state of his abdomen, where four tiny holes mar his skin, rivulets of blood flowing slowly, soaking the top of his pants, though not as copiously as he would have imagined. “I've had worse. I'll take care of it myself once we land.”

 

“How would you like ‘moron died of shock’ on your gravestone?” Tony asks. “You started healing around the bullets already,” he adds, inspecting the wounds, trying really hard not to pay attention to anything else, definitely not eyeing the angry looking scarring on his left shoulder, where the vibranium arm meets his flesh. “We need to take them out.”

 

His fingers hover lightly over Barnes stomach  without him even noticing. Barnes’ muscles contract when he goes to touch it and Tony halts himself mid motion, hurriedly withdrawing his hand. When he looks up, Barnes has an expression he can't read on his face.

 

Tony clears his throat again.

 

“I'm gonna get the first aid kit,” he says, and gets away as fast as he can, his heart skipping a beat inside his chest.

 

He doesn't know what's wrong with him.

 

(Too many things to choose from.)

 

It's been a long day, he tells himself.

 

(The sun is just rising.)

 

He comes back with the medical box and sets himself comfortably, pushing his seat next to Barnes’. He cleans his hands as best as he can with the hand sanitizer before putting on sterile gloves. He disinfects a pair of surgical tweezers before pouring antiseptic over Barnes’ middle. Barnes goes rigid under him, abs tensing, but once again, he makes no sound.

 

Tony doesn't like it. He wants to shake him, he wants to tell him to scream, to show some emotion, to react. That he's allowed to.

 

It's not his place though, so he says nothing.

 

“My hands are not very steady,” is the only warning he gives before he starts working.

 

One bullet is easy enough to extract, and within a few minutes, he places it into a container near the kit, where it hits the bottom with a clicking sound.

 

“I wasn't trying to kill you,” Barnes says, some time later, when Tony is struggling to grab the second bullet.

 

Tony stops what he's doing and looks at Barnes, confused. Was he so concentrated on his task that he missed the conversation?

 

“In Siberia,” Barnes clarifies. “I was just trying to stop you from doing something you would regret.”

 

He makes a sound, shakes his head. He doesn't look at Tony. “No, that's not entirely true. I was also trying not to die. I guess my sense of self preservation is something I can't turn off.”

 

Tony says nothing.

 

After a long moment he goes back to the bullet.

 

“Not so sure I would have regretted it,” he hears himself say, not taking his eyes off that strip of skin.

 

There's a fragile thing between them, a truce that feels like a glass bubble, and he knows that it would break if he were to look him in the eyes.

 

“I'm the killer, not you.”

 

Tony snorts. “Hate to break this to you, but I'm pretty sure my body count is a tad bigger than even yours.”

 

He drops the second bullet with the first. Dive in for the third one.

 

“I was a sniper. Before Hydra. I was a sniper in the army,” Barnes says adamantly. Like it's important for him to prove that he has always been a monster.

 

Take a number, Tony thinks.

 

“And I was a weapon manufacturer,” he says, a bit more forcefully than he intends, voice dripping venom.

 

“And how many of those weapons did you fire?” comes softly, almost gently.

 

Tony doesn't reply, because that never mattered. Anything he ever created is his responsibility. Has always been. He wasted decades drinking and partying, trying to fill a black hole that just kept on sucking the life out of him, uncaring of the world, of his work, of his legacy. And that legacy had only brought death, with his name stamped on, while he was too busy trying to have a good time to notice.

 

Tony clears his throat a third time.

 

“I think this is beyond my medical knowledge.”

 

The two remaining bullets are lodged too deep inside and he doesn't want to risk doing more damage by probing blindly. The wounds are clear, no ragged edges, no broken parts. He doesn't like leaving him with a job half done, but he'd rather not turn something seemingly easily fixed into a mess.

At least they don't seem to have hit any major organ. Even the bleeding has stopped.

 

He cleans the wounds as best as he can and covers them with gauze.

 

“You're gonna need someone more qualified to take a look,” he says.

 

Barnes shrugs, turns away.

 

The moment is over.

 

“Friday, call Dr Cho.”

 

“Calling,” Friday says, and the dial tone fills the cabin.

 

“Hello?” comes sleepily from the other end.

 

“Helen, hey,” Tony says, getting up, putting some distance between him and Barnes, tone jovial. “I'm gonna need a favor.”

  
  
  



	4. Sunsets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I'm absolutely incapable of sticking to a schedule, but my life kinda goes in every direction and I don't always have the time and patience to sit down and write after a long day! But rest assured that I haven't lost interest in this story at all! I have most of it planned in detail (epilogue included) and some of it already written, so sooner or later you'll still see this updated, could be in a week (hopefully!), could be a little later :)
> 
> Many thanks to superbatfleck for being the best! I love you <3
> 
> Comments make my day :D

“One day," you said to me, "I saw the sunset forty-four times!"  
  
And a little later you added:  
"You know-- one loves the sunset, when one is so sad..."  
  
"Were you so sad, then?" I asked, "on the day of the forty-four sunsets?"  
  
But the little prince made no reply.

  
_Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince_

  


It's a stain. A simple, blackish, vaguely star shaped stain on an otherwise pristine set of red tiles, and yet he finds he can't take his eyes off of it, mug of coffee long gone cold in his hand.

 

There's a story behind it, of course. An accident involving muffins catching on fire inside the oven, an overly anxious Jarvis and a mischievous little Tony running around in Trek pajamas and refusing to be put to bed.

 

Laughter, batter everywhere and chocolate chip cookies afterwards, it's not a particularly remarkable memory, but it's a good one. One he hasn't actually thought about in years, even though to this day, he still can't eat a muffin with a straight face.

 

Now he can't tear his gaze away from that minuscule imperfection, he can't stop thinking about Jarvis’ kind and patient voice, and he should stop thinking about JARVIS’ unrepentant sass and all the thousands overlooked stains in his life that hide galaxies behind them he doesn't want to explore.

 

(Some memories just hurt.)

 

When Helen enters the kitchen and says, “Hey,” he’s so lost in thought he startles, coffee sloshing out of the ceramic rim, dripping on the floor, on his shirt, on his sweatpants.

 

“Fuck,” he mutters as everything comes into focus all at once, the room, the colours, the sounds, the wetness of his clothes.

 

When she says, “He's resting now,” in a reassuring tone, Tony busies himself mopping the mess he made with a hand towel, humming appropriately.

 

When she says, “Between his healing factor and my dermal regenerator he should be as good as new in a matter of hours,” he plasters a smile on his face, claps his hands once and says, “Great!”

 

When she looks him in the eye and says, “Tony… What are you doing?” his smile doesn't even falter. “Thank you so much for your help,” he says. “I owe you one,” he says. “I'd really appreciate it if you kept this between us,” he says.

 

He accompanies her to the front door and he closes it behind her before she has a chance to protest, and once the world is locked outside again, he hits his forehead against it, once, twice, three times, thinking, _I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing._

 

(That's familiar, at least.)

 

He goes back to the kitchen, pours what remains of the old coffee down the drain, and brews himself a fresh pot. He downs about half in one go, bitter and still too hot. It burns his tongue and leaves a faint sting behind but it does nothing to placate the exhaustion seeping through his bones.  

 

Some days he just feels _old_ , like age is a physical weight that's catching up with him and holding him underwater, making everyday a little harder to breathe, a little harder to move.

 

(Some days he just feels cold.)

 

He's uselessly standing in the middle of the kitchen again, gazing vacantly at the wall when his stomach growls impatient and Tony is reminded he hasn't eaten anything in almost a day.

 

The fridge is half filled with Tupperware containers, leftovers and empty shelves, nothing particularly appealing calling his name. He should really pay a visit to the grocery store sometime soon, buy something healthy, stick to a better schedule.

 

He used to think of food as pleasure, but now it's mostly just sustenance. He's been so consumed by his life lately, he forgot to actually live it.

 

He tries to keep his mind purposefully blank as he lays all the ingredients on the kitchen island and starts preparing sandwiches with methodical precision, each layer almost geometrically stacked on top of the other. Mayonnaise on the bread slices, enough to make them moist, but not too much to make them soggy. Tomatoes between the lettuce and the turkey to keep the meat humid. Just the right amount of mustard to give it flavor.

 

He never even noticed how hungry he was until he bits into the first sandwich, and he ends up wolfing two down with almost mechanical bites, savor exploding in his mouth as he chews and swallows, chews and swallows until there's not even crumbs left.

 

He pauses at the counter for a while when he's done, almost going cross eyed, before saying, “Fuck it,” and making three other sandwiches just as neatly and piling them up on a plate. He pours a glass of orange juice for good measure and puts everything on a tray and off he goes, not giving himself time to reconsider.

 

He's careful when he climbs up the stairs, plate and glass tinkling with each step, juice courting the rim of the glass, never truly spilling.

 

(There's a metaphor in there somewhere.)

 

The door is ajar when he reaches the room at the end of the hallway, and Tony pushes it open with one foot, and quietly makes his way toward a low piece of furniture where he slowly lay down the tray.

 

Barnes is asleep on the bed, pale blue sheets up to his naked torso, the coloring so light it makes him look almost ethereal, hair framing his face like a halo.

 

Dim sunlight filters through the half closed curtains, bathing the room in pastel tones. It paints a serene and surreal picture that clashes with the chaotic whirlwind that are Tony’s thoughts and feelings, and not for the first time he feels out of place, out of tune in a song that everyone is humming along just fine.

 

He should leave, of course. Now that he delivered the food, there's really no good reason for him to stand a few feet off the bed, watching Barnes’ chest rise and fall with each deep breath.

 

He feels like an intruder, with Barnes unaware and unguarded, but Tony finds himself inching closer to the bed rather than reaching for the exit.

 

Barnes is wearing fresh bandages on his newly regenerated skin, and Tony knows that when he'll wake up and take those off, his skin will be perfectly whole, no scars left behind. Helen is good like that.

 

But just the thought has him looking at Barnes left shoulder, now that he can, now that Barnes won't know, Tony's eyes tracing angry red and faded white lines where flesh meets metal plates.

 

Tony’s hand goes to his own chest almost as a reflex, fingers massaging at his sternum through his shirt, feeling his own raised marks under his fingertips.

 

There's a reduction in lungs capacity that comes from having a metal case lodged between his ribs, but somehow Tony is very aware that the shortness of his breath has nothing to do with his arc reactor.

 

It's not hard to draw a comparison between the two of them. _We got more in common than you think,_ Barnes had said, and Tony knows that's true and he wonders where they would stand if circumstances were different between them.

 

Would they swap stories of their torture experiences? Commiserate over waking up after thinking they were dead, with new, alien things stuck in their bodies? Toast to the laundry list of killings they have on their conscience?

 

Barnes’ left arm is a thing of beauty and fine engineering, and it's a conflicting thing to feel so fascinated by something that he wants to hate.

 

But it's Barnes’ face he can't take his eyes off. There's a placid quality to his expression now that he's asleep, now that his always harried and always haunted blue eyes are closed, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

 

He looks incredibly young.

 

There's something ragged about his features, yet something pleasant. Pretty is not the word for it, he's not soft enough for that.

 

Handsome is.

 

Tony heard some stories from Steve, some from Howard. Barnes used to be a ladies man back in the day, and it's not hard to imagine it, imagine him, coming straight out of the pictures collecting dust downstairs, all swag walk and husky voice, a dame in each arm.

 

Who would he have been without Hydra? Who would he have become had he not fallen from the train that day? Would he have come home from the war, found a nice woman and settled down? Two point five kids and a white picket fence?

 

He's struck by the weirdest thought that for all the tales full of mischief and the folders full of data and numbers. Tony actually has no idea who this man was. Is.

 

Who did he want to become growing up? Who was he before the Army?

 

He used to be a footnote in Captain America's stories before he became Steve's lost friend and then his parents’ murderer. Now he's a presence he can't seem to shake from his life, there at every corner.

 

When something disturbs Barnes’ sleep, features scrunching and fingers twitching, Tony is out the door as fast as his legs can carry him.

 

He almost flies down the stairs, hurrying to reach his workshop. He exhales in relief only when the glass doors close behind him.

 

It's not like he was doing anything wrong, he tells his racing heart.

 

(The problem is that he's not doing anything right.)

 

\----------------

 

He takes it against the punching bag, hitting it and kicking it like it personally offended him until his bandaged knuckles hurt and he's no less worked up than when he started, only more tired and sweaty, body aching in places he didn't even know could ache, a reminder that he did get pretty intimate with a wall.

 

He admits defeat and throws his gloves on a bench, drying himself up with a towel. He should shower again, his t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin, but the last thing he needs is another existential crisis under the spray where he's left alone too long with his own thoughts.

 

Tony heads towards one of his father's old sports cars instead, taking a box of tools with him and sliding under its belly.

 

It's easy to lose himself in something he knows how to deal with, in something he can put his hands in and actually pull apart and put back together, make it work.

 

He fixes cars when he can't fix anything else.

 

“Is that gonna fly?” he hears some time later and it makes Tony jump, hitting his head against the radiator, stars exploding in his vision.

 

He should start having Friday announce people, like a twenty first century herald. He's tired of always being caught unaware and making a fool of himself.

 

(He's tired of being on edge all the time.)

 

Then maybe again, she did announce Barnes’ presence, and he was probably too distracted to realize it. Tony’s hand goes to his aching temple but his fingers don't come away wet with blood. Small mercies.

 

He takes a steadying breath before rolling from under the car a quick look at the clock tells him he just spent almost three hours tinkering with. He didn't even notice.

 

“You okay there?” Barnes asks, his tone halfway between concern and amusement.

 

Tony tries not to sulk, wiping his greasy hands with an even greasier rug. “Peachy.”

 

Barnes turns to take in the room, but not fast enough for Tony to miss the almost sardonic smile on his lips.

 

He's wearing the clothes Tony left for him, an old threadbare gray t-shirt, with MIT written in caps on the front - a terrible choice, really, since it barely fits Tony himself - that is clearly one or two sizes too small for Barnes, seams pulling at the shoulders and at the arms, and black faded sweatpants that fall just a little too short.

 

His hair is pulled back in a messy half ponytail, a couple of strands falling in front of his face.

 

His feet are bare, but Barnes doesn't seem to care as he walks around, eyes darting from the line of flashy cars, to the walls of holographic projections, from the few armors and armors parts lying around, to the dozens and dozens of boxes haphazardly covering most surfaces, to the gym equipment sitting unobtrusively in a corner.

 

There's a peculiar combination between assessment and wonder as he does so, and it's ridiculous, but it curves Tony’s lips in a smile.

 

“So, is that gonna fly?” Barnes asks again, nodding to the 1953 Ghia Cadillac that Tony was just working under.

 

“Nah,” Tony says. “I got my suits for that.”

 

Barnes hums, metal fingers drumming on the surface of a table. “Well, that's disappointing. Gotta say, so far the future is not that impressive.” He angles his head, squints a little. “You know, I'm pretty sure your father did promise us flying cars, so I feel very cheated now.”

 

“Yeah, well, he was never really good at keeping promises,” Tony says, and it's a lost cause trying to reign in the bitterness in his voice. He throws the dirty rug away.

 

“He wasn't really good at making cars fly either,” Barnes says, almost apologetically. “I think he made one hover for like five seconds before it dropped dead.” He shakes his head.

 

Tony snorts. “Bet good old dad loved that. When was this again?”

 

Barnes pauses. “1943. Stark Expo.” A half smile. “It was the night before I left for the war, actually. My last night as a free man. I dragged Steve's sorry ass to a double date. God, he hated it.”

 

The silence that follows, as Barnes keeps wandering around the workshop and Tony keeps fidgeting, moving screwdrivers and wrenches around, is painfully awkward, at least for Tony. Barnes seems entirely at ease as he probes and picks at things laying around.

 

“Thanks,” Barnes says softly, a minute later. “For the whole…” He gestures vaguely at his torso. “Your friend is really good.” He lifts his shirt up a few inches revealing unmarred skin where gunshot wounds painted it bloody only a few hours before. “Please thank her again for me. And… thank you for the food. And the clothes. You didn't have to.”

 

Tony scrunches up his nose, arms twisting around almost hugging himself, feeling suddenly very uncomfortable in his own clothes. “Anytime,” he all but rasps out, and he almost curses out loud, his mouth twisting in a grimace, when he realizes what _anytime_ actually implies.

 

Barnes doesn't comment on it, though that half smile still sits on his lips, and Tony is immensely grateful when Dum-E comes whirring across the room and presents Barnes with a suspiciously dark beverage.

 

Barnes takes the proffered cup without hesitation. “Uh. Thanks.”

 

“Don't drink that,” Tony says, hurrying to take it from his hand and throwing it in the sink. “Pretty sure even you could die from that. He's fond of making drinks with motor oil and other exciting ingredients.”

 

“That's Dum-E,” he adds when he sees that Barnes is still studying the bot with almost childlike interest. “Just ignore him, he's terrible. I'm gonna donate him to a community college, except they're probably throw him away too cause he's 100% useless. I was like sixteen when I made him, so he's not really good at anything. He's a... “ He trails off, Barnes eyes seeing more than he would like.

 

“Mechanical arm?” Barnes finishes for him, one eyebrow raised.

 

Tony just nods, and it's clear they both know he's lying. That's not all Dum-E is.

 

Barnes snorts. “I think we're gonna get along just fine,” he says, before actually fist bumping Dum-E, one metal hand to another. “Hi Dum-E, I'm Bucky.”

 

Dum-E chirps almost happily.

 

“Right,” Tony says, throat uncomfortably tight. “Well, don't encourage him, that's the last thing he needs.”

 

Tony walks up to the nearest station, working the keys with purpose, reminding himself that for how easy this seems, it's still dangerous. It's still improbable.

 

“So, a funny thing happened when you were sleeping,” he says, looking at Barnes from the corner of his eye. “I got this really weird update on the situation in Oregon.”

 

Barnes shoves both hands inside the pockets of his sweatpants.

 

“Apparently the lovely building in which we almost died went ‘pouf’. It got torn down by a series of explosions.”

 

All the screens of the workshop suddenly show a satellite video of the building collapsing on itself, smoke and flames raising high.

 

“So weird,” Barnes replies, with the most unsurprised, almost bored tone.

 

“I know, right? So bizarre,” Tony says, rewinding the video until dozens of men appear on the monitors, the vantage point of the satellite camera making them look like ants crawling inside a huge concrete box.

 

“Hydra agents,” Tony points out, though there's no need. The moment he hits play again, the building explodes, taking them all out.

 

Tony turns to face Barnes directly. Barnes’ look is almost challenging.

 

“Now, that's really unfortunate,” Barnes says, his accent stressing out the last word.

 

“Cut the crap, Barnes,” Tony tells him. “According to the timestamps, we must have been flying over Nebraska when this happened? So, what?… Did you rig it to blow before you came to me? Is that why you were there? What's your play?”

 

Barnes raises an eyebrow. “ _My_ play?” He shakes his head. “Fine. Let's just say I'm cleaning up.”

 

“You call that cleaning up? North Dakota, Wyoming, Washington… That was you, too, wasn't it? When I got there, those bases were all burnt to a crisp.”

 

Barnes says nothing.

 

“You're playing a dangerous game. What are you doing? Why? Does the team know about this? Does Steve?”

 

Barnes snorts. “Pot. Kettle.”  

 

“Cut the crap,” Tony says again.

 

“So should you,” Barnes replies, and he hasn't moved at all, hands still inside his pockets, pose unthreatening, but Tony feels almost pinned down, like Barnes’ sudden quiet anger is something that is physically holding him in place. “Look, your friend is really worried about you. I know it's none of my business, but Rhodes doesn't deserve this shit.”

 

“Excuse me?” Tony asks, disbelief leaving him with his mouth hanging open.

 

“I know what it's like, okay?” Barnes says, running one hand through his hair, messing it up even more. He exhales. “I know what it's like to have one idiot friend who thinks he's invincible and who goes around always looking for trouble and I know for a fact that trouble is always going to find you, cause trouble always finds people like you, and idiots like me and Rhodes are always going to be left behind feeling guilty cause we're not doing enough to stop you. Just... Just talk to him. Tell him what's going on, or.. don't. I don't care, but talk to him. He's your friend.” He looks away. “You go all lone wolf, but… there's people who worry about you, and it's not fair. To them.”

 

Tony’s words are stuck on his throat, and he's too stunned to free them. When he looks down he finds that his hand is closed in a fist so tight his nails are biting into his palm. He lets go.

 

Fair? Nothing about this is fair.

 

(Fair sailed a long time ago.)

 

“You knew. You knew what I was up to. Have known for a while, I would guess. Why didn't you tell him, then?”

 

“Wasn't my place.”

 

“So you're not actually following me.” It's not a question.

 

Barnes sighs. “You could say this-” he gestures towards the holograms of the satellite images from Oregon - “this is my _mission_.” A bitter laugh. “Making sure you're still in one piece at the end of the day is what you can call professional courtesy. Rhodes would kill me if he knew I let anything happen to you.” He pauses, looks Tony in the eye. “And so would Steve.”

 

He needs to put some distance between them, so Tony walks from table to table, picks up a stress ball, throws it from one hand to the other, when all he really wants to do is throw it against something, let it break anything in its path.

 

It's probably not very wise to give Barnes his back, but he can't really keep talking to him face to face. Those eyes miss nothing and he doesn't know what he's giving away.

 

He doesn't want to talk about Steve. Not with him anyway.

 

(Not with anyone, really.)

 

He doesn't want to talk about how he knows that Steve still cares about him, knows he never stopped.

 

(Neither did he.)

 

He doesn't want to talk about how he knows that Steve hurts cause they weren't able to go back to where things were between them _before_.

 

(So does he.)

 

There's too many things left unsaid, too many explanations he owes. Too many skeletons he's perfectly comfortable leaving in the closet.

 

How do you go back? How do you forgive your friend for keeping truths so painful from you? How do you forget that he chose someone else over you?

 

(He can't really blame him. He wouldn't have chosen himself either.)

 

How do you explain that to that someone else?

 

“You're blowing them up. Why?” Tony asks instead, backpedaling to safe ground.

 

Barnes lets out a slow breath, leaning back against a table. He picks up a half dismounted gauntlet, starts moving its fingers. He doesn't look up when he starts talking. “I don't sleep much. Not really. I'm always somewhere else when I close my eyes. Or someone else some _when_ else. I suppose I just hope burning it all to the ground will make me sleep better at some point,” he says, so quietly Tony has to strain himself to hear. “Honestly? I'm not holding my breath. But just knowing that they won't be able to do that to someone else is reason enough.”

 

For the longest time the only sound in the workshop is the low hum of electricity.

 

Tony sighs.

 

“I'm digging, mostly,” he starts, and he holds his breath waiting for the regret he's so sure will come. It doesn't, so Tony keeps talking. “I've been trying to put things together. Find wherever they got their hands in. I'm trying to dismantle them at every level.”

 

Barnes sets down the gauntlet. He doesn't comment but there's an hesitant ease about him that wasn't there before. In the end, it's what makes him say what he says next.

 

“Some… some of these things belong to you, I suppose.” He gestures toward the countless boxes around them. “Hydra is very sentimental, apparently. I found your old blue jacket. From the army? Uh… I guess you had it when they, uh, when they took you.”

 

He heads to one box lying almost precariously near an empty mug of coffee and a Hulk action figure. He takes out the jacket, its texture almost soft against his fingers and he holds it out to Barnes who seems immobile, still standing where he left him, looking at that piece of fabric like he would a ghost.

 

Tony doesn't lower his hands, and eventually Barnes comes to him, reaches for it. His hands don't shake, and Tony doesn't know if that surprises him or not.

 

Barnes stares at it for the longest time, before unfolding it open.

 

It preserved pretty well, considering it's over seventy years old and Hydra didn't take particularly good care of it.

 

The left sleeve is torn apart above the elbow, and that's where Barnes’ gaze lingers the most.

 

Tony would like to say that that's easily fixable, that he has some very good tailors on speed dial who could make it as good as new in a matter of hours. He holds his tongue though, something telling him that it's not the right thing to say.

 

Some broken things come back to you so you can keep them on shelves as reminders of what you lost.

 

(He would know. On his shelf sits proof that once he had a heart.)

 

Tony coughs and it's like Barnes comes to from a trance.

 

“I saw this in a museum,” Barnes says, and it's hard to read him.

 

“Your old dog tags are here too,” Tony chances saying and Barnes’ eyes go round.

 

He seems transfixed when Tony hands them over, their metal tinkling against the metal of his hand. Barnes stares at them, tracing James B Barnes with his flesh fingers over and over before he puts them on, and Tony can see his shoulders dropping when he does, almost like all the tension drained from him at once.

 

“Thank you,” Barnes says and his voice is hoarse.

 

Tony clears his throat, fingers drumming a tempo on his arc reactor. “Sure.”

 

Barnes wanders around the shop looking into other boxes, and Tony takes it for the break they both need, exhaling.

 

He feels like he ran for hours, out of breath, all his muscles tired, ready to collapse.

 

“You can call me Bucky, you know,” Barnes says not long after, eyes pointedly fixed on the pages of some old files he digged from a pile of folders that can't be all that interesting.

 

“What?”

 

“You can call me Bucky, if you want. I mean, you dug bullets from my stomach, I think we're past surnames.”

 

“No, I,” Tony starts, caught completely off guard.

 

Saying it's an unexpected request would be truthful, but it would also feel like a lie.

 

“I don't think I can,” he finishes lamely, surprising himself when he hears the regret in his tone.

 

Talking to him, being friendly, having some sort of neutral relationship is not as hard as he thought it could be. Barnes makes it easy.

 

He's not strong enough to let it all go though. He's not strong enough to call him Bucky.

 

Not yet.

 

There's something dejected in the way Barnes shrugs, some of the tension finding its way back in those shoulders. It makes Tony feel like an asshole.

 

Everyone is trying to move forward and he's still running backward.

 

“Fair enough,” Barnes says, evenly. Like he wasn't really expecting a different outcome after all.

 

(He's right to always expect the worse from him.)

 

 _That's it, I ruined it_ , Tony thinks, when Barnes doesn't say anything else.

 

“What about James?” comes almost five minutes later, when he's still beating himself up about it, pretending to read data off a screen.

 

Tony turns to face him and can only manage to blink at him stupidly. “I thought you didn't like being called James.”

 

Barnes doesn't reply straight away, the usual eyebrow raised. “It's not that I don't- everyone always called me Bucky. Since I was a kid. The only one who used to called me ‘James’ was Steve's mom,” he says, shaking his head, a small smile on his lips. “And she only did that when Steve got in trouble and she was upset with me for not stopping him.” He chuckles. “That happened quite often, actually. He was such a little shit.”

 

Tony wonders if he even realizes his hand, his flesh hand, has been playing with the tags almost non-stop since he started talking.

 

“I always feel like I've done something wrong when people call me James, you know. It's why I prefer Bucky. But... I don't mind.” His easy smile turns flat. “I guess it's only fair. I did do something wrong.”

 

“I think this is the longest I've ever heard you speak,” Tony says in lieu of replying, fingers tracing the arc reactor’s contours. “It's kinda freaking me out.”

 

Tony almost sighs in relief when Barnes snorts.

 

“Whatever you say, Mr Stark.”

 

“Actually, I have four doctorates. Why do people always forget about the doctorates?”

 

“Now you're just showing off,” Barnes says, and the half grin is back on his lips, and he doesn't know why, but Tony finds himself mirroring it.

 

Half an hour goes by with them trading off-hand jokes and acquired intel back and forth, Barnes studying files and offering insight when he can. When he remembers details of missions he carried in the past.

 

The way he talks about them, detached, like that life belonged to someone else, and yet he clings to those memories like remembering is the most important task he has to face, has Tony sneaking glances more often than he would like to admit, Barnes’ nose scrunching up whenever he's too frustrated with himself for not knowing, his tongue caught between his teeth whenever he's too concentrated.

 

They work well together, and Tony finds himself chuckling at Barnes dry humor many one time.

 

It leaves him unsure, unbalanced, like it's time to question himself and what he's doing, but he doesn't. He doesn't stop long enough to allow himself to process.

 

“What's this?” Bucky asks, much later, and his voice is different, cold, _wrong_ enough to make Tony’s hair stand up at the nape of his neck.

 

Tony turns to find him sitting cross legged on the floor, several feet away, half a dozen overthrown boxes in front of him. He's holding himself rigidly, every muscle in his body taut, no trace of the softness he showed until now.

 

Tony takes a few steps to get closer, slowly, guarded, and he's about to ask, _What?_ when he spots a red cover peaking from a pile of documents, a dark gray star in its middle and his blood turns to ice in his veins.

 

“Stark, what is this?” Bucky asks again, quieter yet somehow it resonates loudly in the silence of the room. He's looking at the book as he would a poisonous snake and Tony can see sweat starting to pool around his temples, his upper lip.

 

“I found it in Croatia,” Tony says, and he feels compelled to put his hands up in a placating gesture, to keep a safe distance. He inches closer instead, against his better judgement.

 

Barnes turns to look at him slowly, like taking his eyes off the book is the hardest thing he's ever done, like it might attack him if he does. He doesn't say a word, he simply looks at Tony and expectation sits heavily between them, making it hard to breathe.

 

“It's not what you think,” Tony finds himself saying. It's suddenly important to him that Barnes knows.

 

“Trust me, you don't know what I’m thinking,” Barnes says, a bitter note on his tone, and Tony would like to tell him that he has no right to act like Tony is betraying _something_ , anything, because Tony had done nothing wrong.

 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, fingers moving to push his eyes inside their sockets hard enough he sees white stars dancing on a black background, exhaustion coming back full force, Tony leans heavily against the worktable behind him.

 

“It was among some of the things I found. Things concerning… concerning the Winter Soldier programming. Concerning you.”

 

Barnes’ stare is hard, unyielding, but Tony doesn't back down.

 

“So what,” Barnes asks, voice rough, “you're keeping it around in case you'll need it? Need a way to control me?” He spats.

 

“What?? No!” Tony hurries to say, taking a few steps toward him before he can stop himself.

 

“No,” he says again, more in control, forcing himself to look Barnes in the eye no matter how difficult he finds it. “I kept it cause I actually think it could be useful to help you with the de-programming work you're doing. I…” He takes a deep breath. Looks away. “I'm making some changes in the B.A.R.F. coding you're using. I know you're making some progress with it, but I think that incorporating the, uh, the commands could help you… well, not delete the programming, cause I don't think that's possible. But it could help make it useless. It could make it easier for you to resist the compulsion, once someone says those words.”

 

He's aware that his hand is once again over the reactor, but he finds he doesn't care enough to move it.

 

“I need it here cause there's no record of it in any of my servers. Friday has been explicitly forbidden from saving anything about it. I don't want to risk anyone hacking me and getting their hands on it, no matter how secure my stuff usually is.”

 

Barnes is silent long enough that Tony starts worrying, chancing glancing at him from under his lashes. He's staring at him, but the moments their eyes meet Barnes shakes his head.

 

Tony doesn't know what to make of it.

 

“All right,” Barnes says eventually, getting up, and Tony starts breathing again. “All right. But I'm gonna need a favor.”

 

“Uh. Sure,” Tony says, not knowing what to expect as Barnes advances toward him.

 

“I need you to call me the moment you don't need it anymore.”

 

Tony raises one eyebrow. “...Okay?”

 

“I'm gonna want to set it on fire.”

 

Tony huffs. There's a smirk on Barnes lips and the atmosphere is light once again.

 

“Deal,” Tony says, offering his hand to seal it.

 

The ground doesn't open beneath him to swallow him whole when Barnes grasps it and  they shake, Barnes’ flesh hand warm and firm in his.

 

But something feels different.

 

He's sure of that.

 

\------------

 

It's late afternoon when Barnes leaves, and Tony feels like he spent the day inside a blender, and now he doesn't know which way is up anymore.

 

The warm shower is a blessing and a curse, fatigue washing off his body in waves as he lathers and rinses, trying not to linger too long on his actions, his words, his feelings, the entire day replaying itself every time he closes his eyes.

 

He's too tired to make any sense of things anyway.

 

(There'll be time for that later.)

 

He's rubbing his hair dry with a towel, strands falling in each and every direction, clad in comfy boxers and a soft t-shirt, when his phone rings with an incoming text, the screen on the counter lighting up with a picture of Rhodey giving him the finger.

 

 _Coming over with pizza. Your ass better be home_ , the message reads, and no matter how tired he is, the words still find a way to put a smile on Tony's face.

 

On a different night he would have said, I'm busy. On a different night he would have said, I can't.

 

But Barnes’ words still echo in his conscience, and he takes a second to type, _Trek marathon. Tell your girlfriend not to wait up for you_ , one handed instead, phone almost slipping from his clumsy, unsteady fingers.

 

The reply comes not two seconds later and it speaks volumes of how invested Rhodey actually is. It makes Tony close his eyes in shame.

 

_You're on._

  
  
  
  



End file.
